


An invitation, a refusal

by tea_for_lupin



Series: Mythology of Severus and Minerva [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_for_lupin/pseuds/tea_for_lupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minerva and Severus seek cautious comfort in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An invitation, a refusal

**Author's Note:**

> Timing wise, I see this as taking place somewhere within/around/after GoF. I hope you enjoy. It was my first fan fiction; it's not perfect. Some of my later stuff is better. But this forms the first part of the mythology of Severus and Minerva that makes up my headcanon, so I'll leave it as it is, for the moment. Thanks for reading.

_Now_

He considers her; the severity of her, the sparseness, the feel of her bones within the span of his hands.

'Let me go, Severus,' she says, quietly.

He does not release her. 'You have your wand,' he says. 'If you meant what you say, you would not be merely saying it - now would you?'

She closes her eyes. He cannot read her face. His pride, and, yes, his sense of right and wrong, twisted and bitter though it is with coiling around long years of lies and darkness, will not let him stoop to reading her thoughts. She breathes in, out, slow and softly; like someone resigning herself to a task long avoided.

'There are many reasons why this is a bad idea, Severus.' Her eyes are still closed. An invitation? A refusal? He cannot tell. His lip curls slightly.

'Do any of them matter?' he asks. 'Sex can be just that, Minerva. It need not mean anything - else. Or does the idea of coming to my bed again repulse you?'

She is silent. She is still. An invitation or a refusal. He cannot tell. He takes the wand from her hand. She is still. She is silent. Her eyes are still closed. Severus strokes her chin delicately, traces her jawline, brushes his fingers lightly across her lips, brushes her lips lightly with his own. She is still.

'It has been a long time,' she says, half to herself. Her eyes are open.

'It has been a long time,' he says, half to himself.

In the candle-flicker Minerva sees darkness in his face that has nothing to do with night-time shadows, and wonders what more he has to hide. An invitation, a refusal? She cannot tell. She will not ask. Not now.

~~~~~~~~  
 _Before_

One night, standing at the lake's edge in darkness unlit by moon or star or wand, Minerva cries – long shuddering sobs, mourning more souls than she knows how to count; her own among them.

'So you too come here to weep?' says a voice at her side. Severus stands there, his face only the palest of many shadows.

At first startled, then swiftly furious, Minerva lashes out at him with all the bitterness of interrupted grief and discovered weakness, calling him harsh names in a harsher voice. His outstretched hand falls back to his side.

'Are you a lion of Gryffindor or a spitting, spiteful cat, Minerva?' he asks scornfully.

Even before he speaks she regrets her words, her loss of control – but the anger that sparked them will not dissipate, the apology she should offer will not leave her tongue.

They avoid each other the next day.

That evening Minerva swallows her pride and stalks through the Castle to the Potions classroom.

'To what do I owe the pleasure of this – interruption?' His voice is as flat as his words are barbed. He does not look up from the parchment.

'I have come to apologise, Severus,' she answers. He does not raise his eyes. Anger tugs at her; she wishes she could see his face. Still she will say what she came to say. 'I said things last night that I did not – do not mean. You found me… at my weakest, when I wanted to be alone, unobserved.' She pauses, then says at last, 'I am sorry.'

And now Severus does look up, and with a sudden clarity she sees him: young – how could she forget how young – dark, with a brilliant brittle darkness, bitter with loss and unforgiveness and a debt that can never be erased, though he pays it daily. The anger runs out of her like water; her heart is torn.

Severus sees the compassion in her face; and for one rare moment he does not flinch away.

'He has asked too much of you,' Minerva says. Her voice is thick; but she will not weep before him, not again. Instead she wraps her hands around his as they rest on the desk, clenched, cold; she wishes she could warm him.

'No,' Severus replies. He pulls away from her touch, her gaze. 'He has not yet asked enough.'

They return to their play of quick sharp fencing with shining words, the small daily snipings of House rivalry. Only sometimes, as they pass in the halls, do their eyes meet for a few moments longer than strictly necessary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The knock at his chamber door is unexpected, unwelcome; Minerva's presence there even more so.

'What is it that you want?' He is even less inclined to be gracious than usual. 'I am in no mood for further company this evening.' And then, guessing and fearing what she has come to say, he adds harshly, 'There is no need to grace me with your pity, I assure you.'

'My anger, then?' she asks, and he is taken aback. 'What of my anger that the other Order members do not appreciate - let alone honour! - the danger in which you place yourself, the harm you endure, every time you go to the side of He Who Must Not Be Named?'

He recovers rapidly from his surprise. A smile twists his mouth as a smile should not. 'I do not set my life at a pin's fee,' he quotes softly, 'and for my soul, what can it do to that, being a thing immortal as itself?'

His words line Minerva's face with pain. She stands there in her dark robes like a shaded lantern, tall and straight and lit with hidden fire within; and Severus has been so long in the cold, so long in the shadows, so long in the emptiness of his own heart that all he now desires is to be bathed in some of her warmth and light.

Danger, danger, comes his quick thought – but he will not falter, no, he will not fall; not he who walks every day into the deepest blackness with eyes wide open, knowing that he will die. He will take this as he takes food and sleep and acrid medicine, to keep himself alive until his tasks are done. He will take this on his own terms.

He walks across the room and pulls the tall thin witch into his arms, buries his face in her shoulder. He feels her arms wrap tightly around him. It is like nothing he has felt before. It is enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~

In the dream that haunts too often her too-few hours of sleep, Minerva is running, running. The dark stone halls are lined with faces; if she moves fast enough she will not have to recognise them. And so she keeps running, running; but it is never fast enough.

One blessed dreamless night she is woken by Severus' patronus, its silvery form lighting the room like the most terrifying moon she has ever seen. All it speaks is her name. Swifter than thought, fear hammering through her, she is out of bed; running, running. The floors bite her bare feet. The dark stone halls are lined with sleeping portraits. There is only one face in her mind.

The doe leads her down, down, down, to the dungeons. Severus' chambers are unwarded, unlocked. With a will of iron Minerva makes herself stop on the threshold to cast _lumos, revelio,_ cursing the delay, but she has been trapped in just this manner once before, rushing too hastily to what she thought was rescue. The spells reveal nothing, save a crumpled heap of shadows on the floor.

Swifter than thought, forcing herself to lock away fear, she is on her knees beside him. The signs of cruciatus are written clearly through his face, his shaking limbs, his shallow breath; she has seen them before, too many times. There is little to be done: only to wait.

Gently, gently, Minerva transfers Severus to the bed. She sits vigil by his side in silence as the night wears away and he sinks at last into genuine sleep. When he opens his eyes – and they are clear, sane, she sees with relief – she conjures tea for them both.

He accepts the steaming cup, folds his long fingers around it. 'Thank you.' Minerva understands that he means more than just the tea.

'A bad summons, then,' she says. Severus inclines his head, sips his tea, says nothing. 'Was there any particular reason?'

'None but the Dark Lord's usual caprice.' A grimace spasms across his face and is gone. 'Last night I was the chosen whipping boy – that is all.'

Minerva inclines her head, sips her tea, reins in the words she would speak if she thought they might be of any comfort, any use – but they are not, even to herself.

With some effort Severus rises from the bed, dismissing her offered hand with a curt gesture. Slow but unaided he makes his way to the bathroom. Water runs. Minerva pours herself another cup of tea, as hot and strong as she can bear to drink it; the scalding liquid warms and strengthens her. She folds the blanket she wrapped about herself in the night, wonders what time it is; nothing of the summer's heat or light finds its way so deep within the Castle's bones.

Her hand is on the door handle when she hears him say, 'Stay.' She turns. His hair is still wet, hanging in long dark strands around his face; there is a black robe about his shoulders but it conceals nothing. He crosses the room to her as he did that night, weeks or months ago – she cannot remember – and pulls her into his arms, but there is a different purpose in him now.

And she does stay, because Severus is not the only one stretched and breaking with fear and responsibility, and just for today Minerva too will stop running and take her comfort where she can.

~~~~~~~~~~  
 _Later_

The first time Severus pushed Minerva down upon his bed, he tried to be as gentle as he knew how. He quickly found that she did not relish gentleness, and soon it became a triumph to him, a deep dark burn of pride, to know that inside her were these wells of fierceness that only he may tap.

Each time, they fight each other for what they both need, Minerva matching him thrust for thrust and bite for bite, until their long thin forms untangle, gasping. They speak few words, none of endearment.

 _Many reasons why this is a bad idea,_ Minerva said, and she was right, but so was he, and none of those reasons really matter - not when she sits astride him, looking down at him with the clear eyes of her namesake, silver-spun hair loose to her waist where his hands grip her tightly; and least of all when Severus, feigning sleep, feels Minerva's hands on his head, hears the spells of ward and guiding that she places on him, speaking the words in the softest whisper so that he will not wake and break them.


End file.
